Trust

Trust

Part 3: Know Thyself

I made a hell of a mess in the bathroom, too. Cheap beer. I usually drink imports. This stuff was just supposed to put me under though. It did, but my system had sustained enough shocks that it decided poisoning was going just a bit too far. It was a good thing that the next day was Wednesday. I had one class, an upper-level course, and office hours, but that was it. I called the secretaries and told them I was sick. By midafternoon the hangover was mostly gone, the bathroom was reasonably sanitary, and I'd cleaned the broken glass out of the frame that held Nancy's picture.

I was sitting in the kitchen, chain-smoking and morosely considering the consequences of using that hypodermic needle that was lying on the table, when the door rang. I thought about ignoring it, but it was probably the damn yard man. He wasn't worth a damn; he cleaned my yard whenever he needed money, not when the yard needed cleaned. So he'd done the leaves, finally, in January. Brilliant. Now he'd come and expect me to fork over cash, since he at least had the sense not to try cleaning things when I was around to tell him I wouldn't pay him. Sourly, I started for the door, and remembered that my wallet--my new wallet, genuine latest women's fashion--was in the car.

I was so sure it was him that I just flung the door open, expecting him to understand I was in a bad mood. It wasn't him. So, okay, you knew that. I'm a little slow on the uptake. It was her. I had to choke a sob, but I got my composure fast.

"Whadda you want?"

"Isn't it a little cold for shorts and a tee shirt? I was in the neighborhood, and I thought I'd drop your clothes off." I must have flinched or something, because she clarified, "The ones you wore to school yesterday."

Okay, we were pretending to be polite, were we? Mechanical smile. "I've been inside all day, it's warm enough. I've got some of yours, too. Wait here a minute." I felt a slight thrill of exultation in being able to close the door on her, to make her wait on the steps. Good thing I'd taken off those clothes before I'd gotten sick. I found them, shook them out, and carried them back to the door.

Her face went back to an expression of complete neutrality as soon as I opened the door, and I wasn't sure what expression it was chasing away. "I was going to bring them by the school, but they told me you'd called in sick."

"Burns," I said, feeling a little smug at being able to tell the truth and make her feel guilty about it. I gestured at my leg. I was keeping my arm carefully turned so she couldn't see the inside of it.

Should have been more careful. Should have put on a long shirt, or something. Two piles of clothes, two arms. My attempts to keep one arm turned in toward me weren't effective enough. "Lee!" she gasped, dropping the clothes I had just handed her, and grabbing my arm. I almost dropped mine. "What happened to you?"

"Nothing!" I snarled. "I just made sure I won't be acting 'sissy' any more, okay?"

She stared at me. Her face had gone very pale. My emotions got all jumbled up. She was acting almost like she cared. "Lee, dammit, I never meant ... no." She looked at me, and her face firmed up. She looked incredibly sad, but firm. "You'll have the right to ask questions once you don't have to, once you trust me." She glanced back down at my arm. "But that's ... you did that to yourself, didn't you?"

"It works, okay? And it hurts less than being ... whatever."

"Good God!" she exclaimed softly. It was weird, she acted like she really cared. She stared at my arm in horror, and I more or less put it on display. Badge of pride, so to speak. She glanced at my face. Her face changed. Grew thoughtful. She took a step back, and I started to move inside. But she hadn't picked up her clothes, and she wasn't leaving. She dug something out of her purse. I paused, intrigued in spite of myself.

I'd forgotten about the cigarettes I'd abandoned in her car. She dug them out, and found the lighter. She didn't smoke. My heart started to pound heavily. She wasn't going to .... She lit a cigarette. Were there tears in her eyes? Looked at me, and pushed up the sleeve of her coat. Almost, I started for her. No, she was grandstanding. "How many times do I have to do this?" she asked, in a shaky voice, and started pressing the fiery tip against the inside of her wrist.

"Stop that!" I shouted, and she winced and bit her lip. Dropped the cigarette. She looked at it, then started fumbling in her purse again.

I threw the clothes behind me, and closed the distance between us in two steps. Grabbed the pack out of her hand, crumpled it, threw it to the ground and stomped on it. Grabbed her wrist--carefully. "Why, Lee, I thought you didn't care?" she said softly.

Something had snapped the night before. Something else snapped now. "I ...." I couldn't think of anything to say, except the banal three words, which seemed insufficient at the moment, so instead I kissed her. It was a very vigorous kiss. I damn near attacked her mouth, and she responded to that, hungrily, softly, and I felt a sob rack her body, and then she changed it, or tried to. We fought for control, our tongues and lips duelling, me stubbornly determined not to let her take the active side, until I realized what I was doing. Who I was doing it to, I should say. Then it was my turn to stifle a sob, and relax, and let her do the kissing while I responded. I think we sealed some sort of bargain in that kiss, too. Or maybe I just agreed to something. I don't know.

She broke the kiss, and pulled my arm out where she could see it. "Seven," she whispered. "Oh, God!"

I felt ashamed of myself. "Y-you don't understand. I can ... it hurts, sure. But I can, can stop the compulsion. The craving. And then, you know, I almost like myself."

"You're not going to do that any more," she said, in a tone that brooked no demur.

I demurred, clenching my jaw. "Not if I don't have to. It shouldn't take much more, I think." She was staring at me, shocked. "Nancy," I explained, fiercely, "I hate it! I hate wearing p-p-pa- p- ..." I clenched my jaw. Damn word. "I hate dressing up. Even when I'm doing it, I hate it! I hate that it makes me horny when I do do it. But it's, like, an addiction, or something, and even though I hate it, I do it."

"Ah!" she said, softly, looking tenderly in my eyes. "I didn't know that. Lee, I have something to prove to you, but you'll have to come to my house."

I broke the clinch, and let the suspicion show. "New rules?" I asked. "I told you, I'm not going to wear any of that stuff again. That's what this is for."

"Same rules," she replied steadily. I started to shake my head. "If you don't agree," she told me, "I'm going to go down to the Stop'n'Rob, buy a pack of cigarettes, and do six more." She held out her wrist.

"Why?" I asked, bewildered.

She smiled again, slightly, her eyes still brilliant with tears. "Well, if it hurts you as much as those," and she nodded toward the burns on my arm, "hurt me, then it should help you out even more. If pain is what you're after."

"I ... this is insane!" I exploded.

"I agree completely," she said fervently. "Are you coming?"

"No! Y-you wouldn't!" But she had. She just shrugged, and knelt to gather the shirt and pants she'd dropped. I sat down abruptly, feeling the chill, and hugged my knees to my chin. "I don't understand!" I spat, in exasperated staccato.

"Lee," she said, softly, urgently, "I want you to come to my house. I want to show you something about yourself that you don't believe, and that you won't find pleasant, but that will give you a great deal of peace, once you know it. I promise you ... I promise you that you'll understand, but I can't explain it here. You have too many defenses, Lee. We have to go back to the very basics." I was wavering. Stupid. I'd figured everything out, and now she was just messing up my head again. "I love you, Lee." Damn it! I nodded. "Go put on some clothes, then, all right? You'll need something to wear home."

I sighed. "You may as well come inside, then." A thought occurred to me. "Oh. I don't have any p-pa- ... any underwear." I glanced at her, shame-faced. "I, umm, threw everything away."

"Hmm. I should have guessed. In the dumpster?" I nodded. She gestured me inside, finished picking up clothes, and followed me. Good, then. At least she wouldn't make me crawl around in the trash and recover them. I started for the bedroom. Heard her breath catch. "Lee. What's that on the table?"

I gulped. "A needle. Umm, I can ... can I explain later?"

"I read those stories, Lee," she said, looking at me. Gods, she was furious! "Do you have any more?"

I strangled on admitting, "In the bathroom." She went that way; I went into the bedroom. I wanted a minute or two alone, anyway. I heard her rummage around in the bathroom, then the sound of plastic breaking. Oh, well. I could probably get more. Then she was out the door, and I let myself think.

Go through with this? That meant the dress, didn't it? Or was that rule suspended? Hey, wait a minute! This was an invitation! Ka-WHAM went my heart. I jerked to my feet, paced jerkily for a moment. She probably hadn't thought about that part. But it was an invitation, and if I didn't trust her some ways, still, I had an idea that when I pointed it out, she'd agree with me. I grabbed clothes. Hmm. Let her do what she liked. In fact, I could probably even appear in public dressed like Little Bo-Peep, once, and claim that it was a joke, or a bet, or something. This time, there was a reward. Yes, ma'am!

She was coming in the front door when I came out of the bedroom. "What's in there?" she asked, pointing at the bag under the table by the door. I laughed, and she looked at me, startled.

"That's, umm, stuff ready to bring to your house," I replied, smiling. "Makeup, perfume, a nightie, stuff like that." I grinned. "I forgot about it," I confessed.

"What brought on this remarkable change of mood?" she asked me, picking up the bag to hand to me. "Not that I object," she added.

I considered waiting, but then decided ... she was fair-minded. "This counts as an invitation, doesn't it?"

She stared at me, a little blankly. "Is that all it takes to make you happy, Lee?" She shook her head, then laughed herself. "Yes, it's an invitation. Do you have clothes for tomorrow? And are you bringing your car, or are you getting up earlier than usual so I can drive you somewhere?"

The glitter faded a bit when we got to her house. For one thing, she had a garbage bag in her trunk. When I asked, she grinned impishly, wrinkled her nose at me, and said that someone had thrown all these nice clothes away, so she was going to go through and see if anything was salvageable. I started to object that they were mine, but saw the trap early enough, and grumpily lugged it to her door. They were anybody's, once they were thrown away, of course. Then, as we approached the door, I began to get cold feet. I stopped just outside her door, looked at her. She looked sympathetic, but firm. "Go easy!" I pleaded, flushing. Then I took a deep breath and stepped inside. One small step for a ... oh, never mind.

"Don't put the dress on just yet, all right? In fact, if you want, you can leave without doing that part, if you're not ready for it. Put that bag on the balcony, would you?" She disappeared into the bedroom. I took a steadying breath, moved the bag. Then wondered what to do. Well, the bedroom, probably.

There was some stuff on the bed. My Calvin Kleins, a pair of tights, and a slightly ragged black leotard that she sometimes wore to work out in. She was rummaging through books on the top of her bookshelf, and looked very appealing, stretched out like that. I stood and admired the view until she noticed me.

"Voyeur," she said fondly. "Go ahead and put that on, all right? It's pretty vanilla, you know. You could wear it to the local health club and not get an eyebrow raised." She glanced back at me, giggled. This was more like the woman I remembered. "I've got a leotard for you, and much sexier lingerie than those awful things--why'd you buy them anyway? I thought you didn't like cotton. Anyway, that outfit is about as sexy as a dishrag, and that's important for what I want to show you."

"Why can't I just wear my clothes, then?" I asked her, moving to the bed and beginning, obediently, to disrobe. It was a lot easier this time, I noted. I snuck a glance at her chair, and sure enough, the dress was there, but it didn't seem so intimidating this time. I thought I could at least put it on without help. Maybe not quickly, but myself.

"Partly because I won't let you wear men's clothes in my house. The other reason you'll find out about soon enough." She got down a fat book, and a couple of tall, thin ones. I couldn't see what they were. She caught me trying, and admonished, "No peeking! Come on, I'll be in the living room."

I pulled on the clothes she'd laid out. Her leotard was a little small for me. Worse, I'd gotten a little aroused putting it on, and that was very visible. I waited for the swelling to go down, and the padded out into the living room. She was sitting on the couch, next to the table. Looked up, with a smile, as I came in, and patted the couch next to her. I managed to check out the book this time. Mark Twain? Why Mark Twain?

She set it aside as I sat down. "Okay," she said, digging through the stack, then turning to look at me. "Hmm. Let's get the fear out in the open first, shall we?" She pulled out a book. Joy of Sex. I rolled my eyes slightly. How-To for Hippies. She turned it so I couldn't see it, and leafed through it. Then she stopped, and flopped it down on my knees. "What do you think?" she asked, brightly. Woman goes down on man.

I grimaced slightly. That had been a sore point, early on in the relationship. "You know I don't like it, Nancy. I'm sorry, but I don't."

She left it there, a smile hovering on her lips. Finally, "I know. Now look at your lap."

Look at my lap? "It's still there, I reported." She grinned, took the book back. Flipped some more. Didn't find what she wanted. Pulled out another book. Giggled when she found it.

"Here's another nice picture," she said. Umm. Rear entry, wrong hole. I looked, and shrugged. "Your lap?"

"What's with my lap?" I asked. She grinned, took the book back. Dropped How-To for Hippies on my knees again. My favorite picture, as it happens: man kneeling, woman standing. Stir, throb, throb, throb. "Umm, okay, I get it. Was that all?"

She leaned forward, kissed me. "That's just the start, darling." Sat back. "I'm glad the idea still turns you on. Can we agree that wearing that particular outfit, we have a fairly obvious barometer to what you like and what you don't like?"

"Wait a minute!" I protested. "Sexy pictures turn me on. So if you hand me a lingerie catalog, you won't prove anything. That is, you won't prove that I like wearing it. I told you, it's stimulating, but that doesn't mean I like it."

Her smile didn't fade. "Get up, walk around, and come back when you're flaccid again, all right?"

So I did, and as soon as I sat down, she started reading to me. "Next morning I said it was getting slow and dull, and I wanted to get a stirring up, some way." Huckleberry Finn, Chapters X and XI. You can read it yourself. It's where Huck dresses up like a girl. She was watching me as she read, and I tried to hold off, but ... well, when she finished, she wrinkled her nose, giggled excitedly, and said, "Sexy story, huh?"

I glared. "Now that I know what you're looking for, you could probably read me anything and I'd react," I retorted, angry and ashamed.

"Bet you wouldn't," she said, and immediately dropped a book on my lap. Two men. She started reading something out of another magazine, which I guess some people would find pretty hot--it went with the picture--and I cut her off.

"That's sick!" I said.

She looked at me a little oddly. "No, it isn't. But it isn't your cup of tea, is it?" She touched my hip. I glanced down, but I already knew. Instant deflation.

"So what have you proved?" I asked, belligerently.

"Do you really think it's 'sick?'" she asked. It was a serious question, I discovered.

I sighed. "No. It's just ... like you said. Since I always had this compulsion, I was always sorta afraid that that was what it meant, I guess."

She touched my cheek. "Lee," she said, still very serious, "if you don't know who you are, you'll always be afraid of what you might be, if you dared look. Once you know, you'll find it's maybe not such a horrible thing as you thought. That's what this is about. Know thyself."

I gulped, nodded, looked away. It made a disturbing amount of sense. "What if ... what if it is as bad as I think?" I asked in a low voice.

"Then you'll at least have a reason for suicide. Don't you think it's a bit cowardly to die rather than face the truth about yourself?" she snapped. That was her top sergeant voice.

I actually sat and thought about that one. And breathed a huge sigh. "Okay. You're right."

I won't bore you with the rest of that demonstration. It went on for a couple of hours. She showed me pictures, read me things. Eventually, she went and got some stuff made of different fabrics, and rubbed them against my skin. Different things to smell, too. She did an uncomfortable bit with compliments, pointing out my physical responses to being called various pleasant masculine and feminine adjectives. It was all a little much to take in. The important part of it was that I was taking it in. She wasn't particularly surprised by any of my responses. And she didn't press me on them, either, or at least on most of them. Once more, betrayed by what I wrote. She had a really good idea of what my tastes were before she started.

The end of the conversation was a little embarrassing, though. "Now, Lee, I want you to repeat after me. Sex. Cunnilingus. Lingerie. Breast. Cock. Vagina. Panties."

"P-p-pa- ... P-panties," I forced out.

"One 'p,'" she said gently, smiling. "Panties."

"P-p- ... P-pa- ... Pa-panties! Damn it!" I was a complete, brilliant red, and I had a throbbing, obvious erection.

She went on. More words. After that, some of them seemed downright silly. I even laughed, at one point, repeating "Peter Piper," and "She sell seashells." She picked up her books, and read some sentences. Then, "I like to wear soft, lacy undergarments."

"I .... I won't say that!"

"I like to give blow-jobs to passing strangers. Say it."

"What is this? I like to give blow-jobs to passing strangers," I repeated, flushing.

She waited, looking pointedly at my lap. Nothing happened. "I like to wear soft, lacy undergarments. Say it."

"I like t'wear soft, lacy underthings," I repeated, harshly. "Are you satisfied now?" She stared at my lap until I gave up. "All right. So I like it. So what?"

She sighed. "Good question. You think about it. Does it hurt anybody? It doesn't even hurt you. Just remember that you like it, and quit claiming you're compelled to do it." I nodded, angrily. "Lee," she said, in a much softer voice, "I think you've been through the mill today. Why don't you go home? You have one visit to my house, by invitation, whenever you wish to call it that." I gave her a wounded look, and she kissed me. "Oh, Lee!" She sat back, and looked at me. "I think, if you think about this for a day or so, you might even be ready to trust me. To trust somebody, at any rate, and I'll hope it's me. Friday? Don't have dinner, though. And come here at 8:30."

I was feeling rather irritated when I left. All that buildup, and no pay off, except "think about it." Oh, I could have pressed her on it, but I really was tired, my emotions were in turmoil, and she looked pretty bedraggled herself.

I went to bed rather confused. The problem was that I wanted something nice, something sexy to sleep in, and didn't have it. So I couldn't feel guilty about it. But I didn't feel guilty even about thinking about it, not really. I thought maybe I ought to, and started feeling guilty that I wasn't feeling properly guilty, until I realized what I was doing. Well, that didn't stop me from feeling guilty, but I was so involved in being confused I didn't have much attention to spare for it. Nor did the confusion clear up the next day, when I got up and started to dress, and wistfully wished I hadn't thrown all my multiple-p panties. Which got me to thinking about why I stuttered so comprehensively on that word. Why even thinking it made me have to walk with my fists in my pockets. I had a very thoughtful evening. The Committee had a wild and woolly conference. Once I started thinking, or maybe a better word is feeling, a lot of what I thought I knew about myself started getting shaken loose.

When I was in college, I used to tell people that I told about my cross-dressing that I only wore underthings, and only silky ones. Because of the feel of them. It was, so to speak, merely sex, merely a quirk ('And I can stop any time I really want to'). Sex is neat, sex is fun, sex brings joy to everyone. Even then, however, I'd had to admit that it wasn't just that. Thing was, I didn't just wear them to jack off. I'd only gotten the guts to wear them under my clothes in public fairly recently. Why did I want to, though, if it was just sex? I don't jerk off in public!

Well, the whole 'sissy' bit, maybe. I mean, they made me feel nice. Feel, I dunno, pretty. No, that's not it. Attractive. That made it palatable. I wanted to be attractive, and that was what I was attracted to. Yes. That was it. I was sure of it. I was so attracted to women, that I wanted something of theirs with me all the time. No, wait, that's a different argument, leave that one alone. Right. Just ... attractive. I wanna be attractive, and so I dress in a way to attract me. Does that make any sense? Yes! Sure it does! It has to be something like that!

Just stop thinking about those chapters from Huck Finn, then, the Codger advised me.

I didn't have all of this worked out by Friday, though. I dunno, it's a lot harder to work through than to tell. What did happen on Friday is that I went shopping. So that when I showed up at Nancy's door, and got my kiss of greeting, she pulled back and exclaimed, "You're wearing perfume! Where did you get it?"

I grinned, a little excited. "I bought it. I think it's more, umm, my style, than the other."

She inhaled again, then frowned. "Maybe. Maybe something a little more flowery. Delicate." I drew back a little. She chuckled. Oops. "Maybe I'll find you something," she said, whimsically. "Do you need help getting dressed?"

I shook my head, working up my courage. "W-will you help me with m-my m-makeup?" Blushing again. She nodded.

It wasn't hard to slip into an outfit that had left me a quivering heap of terror only days before. It still leeched all my courage, so that by the time I was dressed, looking mournfully at my bare, male face in the mirror, I felt very small, and quite silly. "Sooner or later," the Pessimist whispered, "she's going to get tired of a man that isn't much of one. Enjoy it while it lasts." The Committee held a quick meeting, decided that the Pessimist was right, and gave me orders to be a little better prepared for the breakup, this time. I agreed to watch for the signals.

So I was once again prim and proper when she put on my makeup, though this time she demanded that I watch, and learn. I did so, with a rather heavy heart. When she had finished, and had put my hair up (and given me a kiss when she discovered that I was wearing the butterflies; I'd put them on in the car), she hugged me strongly, and said, "Umm, is it the dress that makes you so adorably submissive?" I blushed instead of answering.

"Lee, go wait in the living room. I need to change," she said, stepping back.

I glanced at her. Literally starting where we had left off, apparently. Stood, and marched out. Well, maybe not marched. It's hard to march in pink shoes with white satin bows. It just doesn't come off. I stopped to marvel at myself in the mirror--it was the same odd mixture, of girl-face and boy-body, in girl-clothes--and then glanced guiltily at the bedroom door and hurried to the living room.

There wasn't anything there, to speak of. I mean, just the usual stuff. So I flopped down, and remembered that one doesn't flop in a dress, and sat properly. And waited. And waited. She was taking a hell of a long time, I realized anxiously. I was getting more and more tense. I could probably pull this off. Was she taking so long so that it would be dark when we went out to the car? It occurred to me, then, that I wasn't really obligated to go anywhere in a dress. I mean, she had said, 'When you cross the threshold,' or something very similar.

I had worked myself into a minor panic, and the Committee had convened a meeting to discuss the legalities involved, based on the rules she had given me, when she finally appeared in the living room. She was completely stunning. She's a sort of dirty blonde, who usually dresses down, and doesn't attract much notice.

She'd attract a lot of notice in a tight red dress. It screamed notice. Black fishnet stockings. Black high heels. She didn't usually wear much makeup, but she had on lipstick and nail polish that exactly matched the shade of her dress. And somehow, in piling her hair up on top of her head, she'd made it look much blonder, more golden. She oozed sex appeal.

"Wow!" I said. I couldn't manage anything else. She hadn't dressed like that even the time I took her to the fanciest restaurant in town. Well, it might not have been appropriate.

"Do you like it?" she asked, and twirled. "It'll certainly draw attention, won't it?" Whoof! I felt as if I'd been sandbagged. I didn't want attention. I nodded. "Are you ready, then?" she asked. I swallowed heavily. Nodded again, tensely. "Stand up and let me look at you." I stood. She motioned, and I did a pirouette. Turned back to face her, and forgot about keeping a stiff upper lip. I gave her an agonized look. "Good. I think we're ready then. What do you like on your pizza?"

"On my ...." I stared.

"Mushrooms and ham, right? Why don't you call?"

I felt a bit light-headed. Took a step toward the phone. I kept my eyes on her the whole time. Dialled. Ordered, rather confusedly. Hung up the phone. She had kept her eyes on me, a tiny smile playing on her lips. When I hung up the phone, I finally broke eye contact, and stared at it.

She burst out laughing, and then she was hugging me, "Oh, good, good, good girl! Oops! Good boy, I mean. Sissy. Whatever!" She pulled back, and I stared, as she chuckled and wiped tears from her eyes. "You did it!"

"Was ...." This was simply not possible. "Is that what you meant to do on Tuesday? Order a pizza? You said 'go out!'"

She laughed again, and stroked my cheek. "Tuesday I was going to run down to the deli and bring back sandwiches. But Tuesday, you went into a panic. Now. Am I going to do anything to hurt you?" She turned her wrist out, to show the cigarette burn. I blanched.

"W-why are you dressed like that for pizza?"

Chuckle. "I'm going to go change again. I bought this dress for a special occasion, and this isn't it. I'm sorry to tease you, love, but Tuesday you worked yourself into a panic very quickly. You were upset, of course, but so was I. That didn't make me want to humilate you in public, though." She gave me a rather hurt glance, "Or to call you names. So I needed to get you tense, and this seemed like the best way to do it. That's why I sent you home Wednesday, too. You were too tired to be anxious."

"W-why?" I was a bit shrill, I suppose. "I mean ... why did you have to, to get me anxious? And, and upset, and scared? Are you going to tell me I liked this, too?"

"No," she replied, so quietly and soberly that I paid careful attention. "Because if I had asked you to, you would have walked out the door with me, trusting me to keep you safe. Wouldn't you?" I looked toward the hall, looked back at her, and my eyes filled with tears. I nodded. "Trust," she finished, simply. Then shook herself. "Relax. I've got to change again."

I sat back on the couch. Well, I suppose it was important. I thought about it. She came back, a bit later, dressed in a style more typically her: indian print skirt and soft blouse. She distracted me quite nicely by having me take her hair down, put it up again, and take it down. I was unpinning it the second time when the doorbell rang. "Do you want to get that, or should I?" she asked, mirthfully, and at my stricken look, chuckled and kissed me on the cheek.

We went to the kitchen, and she got out a pair of plates and forks. I sighed. I like to much pizza. She always ate hers that way, neatly. I looked down at my dress, then, and grinned wryly. But after a couple of pieces, I discovered that I wasn't hungry any more.

"Don't you want any more?" she asked, noticing. I usually ate my half and part of hers. Two and a half pieces was definitely off my feed.

I shook my head, shrugged. "Not hungry. Too much ... too much has happened, maybe."

"Well, clean your plate, at least." I gave her a disgusted and slightly resentful look, an 'I'm not a baby,' look. "Momma spank," she warned, teasingly.

"Is that a promise?" I muttered, too soft for her to hear, and cut off another piece. Pizza's a rather unpleasant food, when you don't feel like eating. When I looked up a moment later, with a sour look, my jaws froze in mid bite. Her eyes were gleaming, speculatively. Maybe not to soft for her to hear.

She let me finish before she said anything, though. "You can't ever have been spanked in a dress, Lee. Why is that in so many of the stories?"

"I, uhh ..." I shifted uncomfortably, and then froze. After that two-hour long discussion, she'd know what that discomfort was, quite exactly. And she had read me some bondage stuff, and some genuinely hardcore stuff, as well. I stared at her, feeling a bit like a mouse with the cat in sight. Look, I have a lot of fantasies, but that doesn't mean I necessarily want to find out about them in real life! Do I? Don't use that argument, Leeling, the Professor advised. "It's just a plot device," I lied glibly. I should say, the Champion Liar did. He didn't get involved in Committee work, much, and tended to take over my mouth when I least expected it. "Since the guy is always against it, he has to be made to, uhh .... You don't believe me."

"Well, you're lying aren't you?" she asked, perfectly calmly.

"Umm, yeah, I guess."

She chuckled. "Well, if you hadn't earned a spanking for burning the dinner, you certainly earned one for lying, didn't you?" She stood, and held out a hand. I let her pull me to my feet, and trailed her to the bedroom. "Bend over, and lift your skirt." Was that another quote?

I hesitated. "You're not really going to, are you?" I asked. "I mean, you were talking about, uhh, trust, and all."

She looked at me, still with that gleam in her eye. "You'll never find out if you like it or not if you don't try it, Lee. Now. You've been very naughty. Let's see." She began to tick off on her fingers. "Burning dinner. Hurting yourself. Throwing away perfectly good clothes. Talking back. And now disobedience. You better get yourself bent over my knee in a hurry, or you may really not like it." I blushed, and fumbled with the skirt, and awkwardly obeyed. On my knees, over her lap, with my head turned away from the mirror and carefully not quite in contact with her leg. No reason to let her know I was aroused already.

Oops. Damn, I kept forgetting. She read those stories. She wiggled, and then she had my legs trapped between hers, and my erection was pressing hard into one thigh. Through a layer of nylon, another of satin, and another of cotton, true, but nevertheless, quite obvious. "Turn your head to face the dresser, Lee," she ordered me. "I want you to see it coming."

I turned my head and flinched convulsively. My eyes had gotten enormous, increasing the illusion of prettiness; my legs and my lack of, err, mammalian hypertrophy were quite nicely concealed by my position. The back of my skirt was up around my waist, revealing pink ruffled p-p-p- you-knows, and I looked, and felt, helpless. And girlish? Was that the timid little voice telling me, "You have to be brave?"

"What pretty panties, Lee! Such a pity no one can see them." She patted my bottom, and I writhed. Raised her hand. Heh. Hardly more than a pat. My bottom tingled, though. She stroked me, and I couldn't help it, I wiggled again. Spank. A little harder. That one really did tingle slightly. Stroke. Whimper. No, she didn't whimper, someone else did. Me? Don't be ridi- Spank! Ooh! It didn't hurt, you understand, but ... Stroke. Whimper. Okay, I admit it, it was ... Spank! Moan. I bit my lips. Stroke. Did you know you can make some awfully interesting noises while biting your lips?

Spank! Stroke. My face was turning rosy pink, to match the dress, I noticed a few minutes later. I was gasping, between making inarticulate noises, and bucking against her knee at each stroke. I'd lost count. SPANK! moan, stroke, whimper, SPANK! moan, stroke, whimper! The watching was nearly as arousing as the spanking.

"Y-you've been very naughty, h-haven't you, Lee?" SPANK! Moan. Stroke. "Haven't you?"

"Mm-yeess!"

"Y-you l-lied to me, didn't you?" Was her voice trembling, too?

I nodded frantically. This was a punishment; you have to understand that. I didn't hurt, but I was in torment, I needed release, and she was slowly- SPANK! "Yes! Yes! I lied! Don't do that! Don't ... nngghh!" That was the stroke, over my now achingly sensitive bottom, and I nearly went into convulsions of pleasure. I turned to face her. "G-gods! D-don't stop!"

She bit her lip, and pushed me to my feet. "G-go to the living room, Lee, and wait for me."

I stared. "B-b-but ..." I began.

"Is it sore?" she asked, slipping a hand under my skirt and smiling smokily. She caught her breath. "G-go."

I went, confused. Stopped at the mirror in the hall, and was so aroused from the spanking that I couldn't even find the strength to condemn myself.

"L-lee! Come here!"

Like a shot! I clattered back into the bedroom, heels loud on the floor, and stopped as if shot. She was standing a couple feet from the foot of the bed, between it and the door--right in front of me!--wearing nothing but a black g-string, a garter belt and fishnet stockings, high heels--and a confident smile. She stood, posed like that, just long enough for the image to etch itself indelibly in my brain, and then she was kissing me. Pushing me onto the bed, and I writhed at the pressure against my sensitized ass. Taking the lead, pinning my arms, pushing my skirt out of the way, and then nylon-over- cock brushed nylon-over-bush. Once. Twice. Three times and ... explosion! Her mouth fastened to mine, her body trembling as the shock waves went through it, and me moaning into her throat and bucking like a bronco.

Passing into the golden afterglow. We lay there, entangled in ... well, in my dress, okay? The guilt woke up, at that, and pounced, and I groaned with the shame of what I had just done.

She sat up, still straddling me, and keeping my hands captured in hers. "Little sissy," she said, deliberately, and waited until I turned my eyes back to face her again. "Little sissy," she repeated, reprovingly, "I didn't give you permission to come. And you've made a mess of your dress. You need a spanking."

Impossible! I flushed, opened my mouth to plead with her, and stopped. She'd moved, and drawn my attention to something. I looked down at where our laps were separated by two layers of nylon and about a centimeter of air, refusing to believe it.

Throb. Could I deserve a spanking for wanting one? My eyes flashed back to hers. She was waiting for that, and lowered herself, slowly, to kiss me voluptuously. "Are you going to waste time denying it?" she whispered then. "Or hating yourself for it? Or shall we ... investigate the possibilities?"

I shuddered, half in pleasure, half in fear at the vistas that were opening. Swallowed, and whispered back, "I'm a researcher."

It still wasn't easy to wake up in a frillier negligee than my girlfriend, the next morning. But when she asked, "Are you going to stay the weekend?" it wasn't at all difficult to decide.